


Through the Desert

by snowkatze



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Turned Into Vampire, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, jaskier is immortal now probably, not quite suicidal thoughts but acceptance of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowkatze/pseuds/snowkatze
Summary: Jaskier is hungry for the world - even before he flirts with the wrong woman and gets turned into a vampire. Jaskier is not a bard anymore, he is a creature. (And witchers kill creatures, don't they?)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 47
Kudos: 807





	Through the Desert

Each song is like dust on Jaskier's tongue. Jaskier walks around a little too quickly, like he is hastily trying to find a place to jump up and down, like the room is too small. Jaskier's voice goes down then up then higher and higher, like he's trying to find the place in his throat where he can _scream_. He looks over the people who are laughing and singing with him and who can't or don't want to see the way his jaw is clenched a little too tightly in between the singing. They know Jaskier, the bard, but they don't know him.

The crowd _likes_ him. Here they are looking at him, clapping for him, here is everything, but the room is not roaring loudly enough.

He notices a woman to the side, who, unlike the other people, stares at him  _with purpose_ . Jaskier winks at her, tries to charm her with a smile, one that doesn't look too stilted.

It's the last song of his set, so he bows into the direction of the woman with a flourish, just before he wishes everyone a good night. He raises his eyebrow at the woman, like he's telling her  _maybe it will be a good night yet_ . She is still staring at him when everyone else has turned away.

Jaskier turns away from her and walks towards the bar, like it's a game. He feels her gaze in his neck.

It's not just a farce, he is thirsty, really thirsty, so he orders a pint of ale. Anything to feel better. Finally, the ale is in front of him and he takes a sip. But he chokes on it, chokes on dust, chokes on nothing.

“Are you alright?”  
Jaskier looks up at the honeyed voice, still coughing. The woman from before slides into the seat next to him.

“Splendid,” he says, once he's caught his breath and smirks, “now that you're here.”  
And here she is, everything about her an offer, from the way she is angled towards him to the suggestive tilt of her lips.

“I listened to your songs... Not bad.”  
“Oh? You liked them?”  
“Quite a lot.”  
“Then maybe I could interest you in a more... private,” he leans forward and says the last word quietly, “performance?”  
This is a duet he has sung a thousand times before.

“I'll lead the way,” she says.

He doesn't go with her because her hair flows like moonlight or because her eyes draw him in, but because he doesn't want to go back to his room in the tavern with the single bed.

He goes because he wants nothing and he wants it so, so badly.  
She grabs his hand and drags him out of the tavern.

“The woods?” Jaskier says. “That can't be comfortable.”  
“Oh,” the woman says smiling, “here I thought you were a strong gentleman able to protect a lady, but if you're scared...”  
“I'm not scared of anything,” Jaskier answers and it's more true than is healthy.

So he follows her into the woods, even though it's dark and he can barely see. But what else is he going to do, play the lute in his room? Get drunk again? Go to bed hungry?

She wants him and isn't that nice?

“Are you certain it's necessary to go this far?” he asks wearily.  
“I don't want any interruptions,” she says, her grip gentle around his fingers. Finally, she slows down and turns around to face him.

Jaskier lets out a sigh and leans in for a kiss. She turns her head just before he can meet her lips. Startled, he pulls back again. This time, she is grinning at him.

All teeth.

Pointy and sharp.

“Okay, I'll admit it,” Jaskier rasps, “now I am a little scared.”  
He takes a small step back, but stumbles directly into – his head whips around – the hard chest of a man.

“Leaving so early?” the man says and grins, too. Teeth pointy, too. Kind of like... fangs. Oh Melitele. This is why Jaskier can never have nice things.

The man fixates his gaze on Jaskier's neck.

Why can't someone ever want him just for his charming conversation and nice company? (Here is the lesson learned.)

Jaskier doesn't have a weapon with him and he already knows he doesn't stand a chance.

He wishes Geralt were here.

He wishes  _he_ were a witcher and made for killing monsters like these ones. But he's just a bard - with his neck exposed.

“Now, now,” he says quickly, “let's not do anything hasty. I was only expecting one person, but I am amendable.”  
The man growls.

“No? Not into that? Yeah, me neither, it was a bad idea, I should just go.”  
He tries to step to the side, but the man catches his arms.

“Not so fast,” he snarls, right next to his ear.

Jaskier tries to struggle a little, but the man has an iron grip and his arms are pulled behind his back painfully. The woman steps closer, but Jaskier can barely see her in the moonlight.

He doesn't want to die so hungry, so, so hungry.

If a monster is going to kill him, it should be when he stupidly followed Geralt into a fight again, not here, not like this.

And then her teeth sink into his neck and she starts taking from him.

It's a lonely way to die.

It's Jaskier betting on the wrong horse again.

She is sucking his blood slowly and he just wants this over with. He wants to close his eyes. He wants to rest. He is torn between the urge to fill a vessel and the urge to destroy it.

He can feel himself growing weaker, becoming more empty. Not like something is missing, but like he's spread thin.

“Hurry up,” the man says.

“No, I want to make this one last,” the woman replies against the bruised skin of his neck.

So on the upside of things, at least his blood is tasty.

Spots of light show up at he edge of his vision. His knees give out and it's just the man holding him up. Not a man, probably. A creature.

He imagines Geralt coming through the village and finding a contract. Tracking the vampires. Finding his corpse. And that thought hurts more than anything else.

Suddenly, there are more teeth in his mouth, too many to be comfortable. Suddenly, he doesn't feel weak anymore. His vision sharpens.

It's two against one. He doesn't have a grip on this strength, he doesn't even know what it is or where it comes from. It's uncontrollable. He's injured, he has little blood for a human.

But it's a lot for a vampire.

And most importantly, he has nothing left to lose.

He snaps forward so suddenly that neither of them see it coming and he can escape from the tight grip of the vampire. He is at her neck so quickly, she can't twist away. He bites down hard and then rips.

She makes a gurgling noise, and he draws away quickly, keeping his eyes on them.

“Fuck,” the other vampire says. All of his attention is on the woman.

So Jaskier turns and runs, faster than he's ever run before.

All Jaskier wants is to stop wanting. But now it roars in his stomach louder than ever before. He runs first to get away and then just to run.

He slows down miles away, finally out of breath. He's never been this cold, he's never been this scared.

He's somewhere in the forest and he doesn't know where and he's all alone and Geralt didn't save him.

Jaskier can suddenly see everything, the tall trees and each leaf, he can hear each rustle, each breath, each chirp. It's the world through different eyes and too much of it. In front of him, there is a lake and Jaskier steps toward it. In the moonlight, his reflection shines. His eyes are red, whether from bloodshot or just general vampirism, he doesn't know. On the pale skin, there is the bruise, bad but not fatal, but he has lost too much blood and he shouldn't be able to see anything in the darkness.

“Oh fun,” Jaskier says weakly, “I'm dead.”

A vampire. How fucking cliché.

It could have been something more mysterious, more interesting. This is too on-the-nose. It's the lamest monster to be. He's gonna dramatize in the ballad.

Jaskier turns around, at the trees and trees. There is no village to be seen. He doesn't know where he left his lute. And he is hungry in a way he has never been before.

Huh. Maybe there won't be a ballad.

(He has to get better at being dead. Dead people don't write songs.)  
(There is no end of the line anymore. There is no reason to head to the coast.)  
He turns around suddenly, erratically, has a feeling there's someone behind him. There is no one behind him. He paces back and forth and back again.

The woman had behaved so suspiciously, what a stupid way to die. Just wait until I tell Geralt about this. Except Jaskier is a vampire. And Geralt is a witcher.

And if they ever meet again... that'll be that.

Maybe that should be that.

Maybe he's already lost everything there is to lose.

Jaskier tears at his hair and there's no one here and Geralt is not here and he screams and he screams until his throat is raw and then a little longer.

***  
  
Death is the opposite of rest.

Jaskier roams the woods, desperately, until the hunger tears his stomach apart. Rabbits are quick, always too quick for him, but now he is quicker.

He has eaten a rabbit, but never drunk one before. He was human before.

But he is used to being hungry. Has the monster always been there, lurking, waiting, until the rest of his humanity was stripped away?

He is not a bard anymore. He is nothing but hunger. Teeth and blood. One who brings death or maybe death itself.

Somewhere in a tavern, there must be the man he used to be, but he doesn't go looking.

He is waiting for something, only there is nothing to wait for anymore, nothing to satisfy. There are too many teeth in his mouth and there is too much blood on his fingers. 

He is not Jaskier. He is a creature. He is someone tearing himself apart from the inside.

He doesn't sing.

***  
  
The creature sleeps, but never restfully. It tosses and turns and dreams of teeth in its neck and a man on a mountain with razor-sharp words. But even in its sleep, it hears too much. It jerks awake at the footsteps.

It blinks and sees too much in the darkness. At least ten Nilfgaardian soldiers approach it in the clearing. They are here for him, but there is no him, only it, and it has too many teeth. And they have swords but they are not as quick as it is. 

_Here I am, dead, why don't you join me?_

It snaps two necks before anyone can even touch it. It kills like it was born to do it, because it was, just about a month ago. But they have it surrounded and there is nowhere to run except over bodies that are still breathing so far.

The third one stabs his sword somewhere in its abdomen, but it's not lethal. It doesn't know where it is lethal anymore. How do you kill a vampire? Separate head from throat? Lethal, that. Wooden stake? Silver, for monsters?  
But the soldiers only have steel and steel doesn't stop it. Pain doesn't stop it. It tears through another two of them with its bare fingers and strength it didn't know it had. It is tackled to the floor, the ground hard and solid beneath its back. It closes its eyes and keeps going because even after all it still wants. Half a dozen bodies on it, crushing it, but it keeps going in the way a monster does, with every fiber of its being. With teeth, fists, legs, too.

Another wound in its leg, one in its arm, one just below its heart.

Finally, it gets grip of one of the swords and yanks and slices and three heads fall and must be lethal, that. It's still, then. With the last of its strength, it drags two bodies square over it off of it. It smells like blood so strongly and it is disgusted with wanting and it needs to get away.

It gets up on shaky legs, bodies to the right of it and to the left of it and everywhere and is this its life now? The empty eyes of the soldiers stare up at it and it doesn't close them because it  _won't_ let them rest.  
Oh. A heartbeat. One so slow it didn't notice it before. It straightens its back and turns around slowly, bleeding from at least four stab wounds, blood trickling into its eyelid.

Man on a mountain, razor-sharp words.

Creature on a mountain, razor-sharp teeth.

“Geralt,” it says. It is absolutely exhausted. “Fancy meeting you here.”  
It nods to the bodies.

“You're a little late to the party,” it continues. It's so tired. Geralt's hair glistens silver in the moonlight, and so do his swords. One of them silver. For monsters.

“I don't suppose there's a chance you'll ignore that giant pile of bodies behind me,” it keeps talking because it always talks or at least it used to. And this – maybe this is a way to die, maybe this is not lonely.

“Jaskier,” the witcher says.

“Oh no,” answers the creature. “Jaskier died a month ago.”

The witcher steps closer, carefully maneuvers around the bodies. The creature doesn't flinch. And it won't run. And it's not scared. (It's never scared when it should be.)  
“Jaskier,” Geralt says.

There might be tears on its face, but probably not, because vampires don't cry, do they? There is something deeply violent inside of it and maybe it would be better to snuff it out.

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats like it's the only thing he knows how to say.

“Stop -”

It can't speak because it is crying and it is interrupted by a chocked out sob.

“Stop calling me that.”  
Geralt is too close. And too far.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier looks up at him. He looks into Geralt's yellow eyes and his knees nearly buckle.

“I know what you have to do,” Jaskier says and swallows.

He's understood by now, of course, that Geralt doesn't like him and maybe never has, but he still never would have thought that Geralt would kill him. But some things, he's sure, are unforgivable. 

“Don't you think it would be easier,” Jaskier says, “if you would stop calling me Jaskier?”

“You're a vampire.”  
“Yes. Great. Ten out of ten for observational skill.”

He smells Geralt's mutated blood and here is finally something he doesn't want. It's a relief.

“Nothing like a good killing spree to reunite the team, am I right?” Jaskier carries on. “Bet you didn't expect that when you got rid of me on the mountain.”  
“These soldiers attacked you.”  
“So?”  
“So you defended yourself.”  
Jaskier sniffs once and carefully avoids looking at the bodies.

“Well, all anyone would see is a monster and some dead humans, so – so why don't we get to it, right? Lovely talk, but – but we both know what you need to do.”

Geralt looks a little confused, his eyebrows drawn together, but then his expression clears up.

“Ah,” he says, “you're right.”  
And Jaskier wants so badly, too badly, maybe, and he tries to hold still so it will be quick.

It's not fair, having to die two times, but it's also a bit of a relief not having to want anymore. It's not any easier the second time around.

“You weren't there,” Jaskier says, almost sobs.

“I know,” Geralt says. And there's that. Now he's stepping closer, closer than he's ever been before, and Jaskier wishes he had a little more time. A little time to memorize how Geralt's eyes look up close. A little time to relish in the breath on his face.

Not enough time to remember that he has seen Geralt kill a vampire before.

And finally, finally, Geralt steps closer still and Jaskier holds his breath. Tries to decide between closing his eyes so he can finally rest and keeping them open so he can see Geralt's face.

Then the collide -

chest 

arms

fingers

in the nape of his neck

Is this how to die? I find

I kind of like it.

“Am I dying?” Jaskier says, “I think I'm probably bad at it.”  
“I hope you won't want to keep practicing.”  
“Ah, no. I think I've had my fill for a while.”  
Silence.

Only it's never silent.  
Not if you're a vampire.

Not if you're a witcher.

“Geralt?”  
“Hm.”  
“Why are we hugging?”  
Jaskier almost expects another hm.  
“I... missed you. I heard these Nilfgaardian soldiers were tracking you down. Because they were trying to find me probably. Because of Ciri. So I tracked them down.”

“You were a little late.”  
“I'm sorry.”  
Geralt's breath is in Jaskier's neck now, and then his cheek touches him and it's nice.

“I'm really sorry,” Geralt repeats, “for everything I said on the mountain. For making you leave. For... not being there.”  
Jaskier presses a little closer, not caring one bit about his injuries. He feels like they're healing up already.

He doesn't want to kill the mood, but he is too confused to keep quiet, so Jaskier asks: “Don't you think you should kill me, maybe?”  
“What? Why?”  
Now Geralt sounds confused too and a little hurt.

“I don't know. I'm a vampire. I'm dangerous. I... drink blood. It's disgusting.”  
“Oh, come on, Jaskier. In terms of gruesome vampires I've met – you don't even make the top five.”

Geralt releases him out of his hold again and Jaskier tries not to lean into him again.

“How did this happen?” Geralt asks gently.

“Oh, you know how it is. Flirted with the wrong woman again.”

“Fuck.”  
“Pretty much. But you don't need to worry about the uncontrollable bloodlust. I'm quite well-versed in wanting what I can't have.”  
Geralt looks at him unhappily. And Jaskier knows he must feel guilty because he's Geralt and he feels guilty about everything.

“Let's get away from here,” Geralt says. He starts trudging back where he came from and Jaskier follows him slowly because every step hurts. Geralt steadies him quickly and together they leave the clearing behind. Jaskier feels – found.

Once they've reached Roach by the road, Geralt turns to Jaskier again.

“It's not your fault, you know that, don't you?” Jaskier says softly.

Geralt works his jaw.

“You,” he says, “you were always too human for me. And you know destiny has a soft spot for fucking me over. And. Warping everything I ever wished for.”  
“You... wished for me not to be human?”  
“I wanted you not to – die.”  
Geralt looks distraught, and he clutches Roach's reigns, then lets go again.

“And you – what did you want?” he asks Jaskier.

Jaskier's heart leaps into his throat.

“Everything,” he says, dumbfounded.

And he does.

He wants the world, ripped open and bleeding underneath his fingers.

He wants to drink the sunshine and eat half the sky.

He wants to fall into Geralt's eyes.

He wants Geralt wantonly, violently and there is no glutton like this one.

He wants Geralt's heart and he wants it beating.

He wants Geralt's teeth gnashing against his teeth.

Geralt leans forward and grips his shoulder and Jaskier moves towards him with his other side, like it's a dance.

_I want you to want to bite me._

It's the gentlest touch. Like caressing lips with lips.

_I want you to hunger for my blood._

Jaskier moves his hands to cup Geralt's cheeks, like he's holding the world and he is.

_I want life,_ your _life, and I wanted it on the mountain. I selfishly wanted to grow old with you._

But he has Geralt, has him where he wants him, under his fingers. Something inside of Jaskier – stills. Stops running.

Jaskier is talking and always talking, but finally – his lips come to rest on Geralt's face.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Poem "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver because I love it:
> 
> "You do not have to be good.  
> You do not have to walk on your knees  
> for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.  
> You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
> love what it loves."  
> \- Mary Oliver
> 
> I wrote this instead of reading "Dracula" for uni like I was supposed to.
> 
> Any comment is appreciated!
> 
> Come talk to me or send me a prompt on [tumblr](https://dancedelion.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
